Undivided
by The Lurking Writer
Summary: Haunted by the words of the sorting hat and the supposed death of his godfather, Sirius Black, Harry finds himself irrevocably changed, subtly altered by the events of last year – alterations that aren't lost on Uncle Vernon. Please rate & review...
1. Privet Drive I

**Title:** Undivided

**Author:** The Lurking Writer

**Summary:** Haunted by the words of the sorting hat and the supposed death of his godfather, Sirius Black, Harry finds himself irrevocably changed, subtly altered by the events of last year – alterations that aren't lost on Uncle Vernon. **Undivided** introduces us to a Harry that is older, brooding – more mature. A Harry that has accepted he must kill or be killed, but who has not accepted that Sirius is really gone. The return of the Dark Lord sets in motion a wave of hysteria and mass panic – it even reaches inside the very walls of the most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world, Hogwarts. It is up to Harry, Dumbledore and their band of merry freedom-fighting Order of the Phoenix members to quell this rising storm and to reunite a world torn asunder by deceit, death and fear.

**Rating:** In general this story will be PG / PG-13, though it may be subject to change. I'll post a warning at the beginning of each chapter, if necessary, to inform. In general, though, the level language / vocabulary used is aimed for a slightly older audience, but don't let this discourage you.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and all related characters, names, etc. are property of J.K. Rowling, all publishers concerned and Warner Brothers. The only things owned by the author are the plot and any names not featured in the official Harry Potter books or movies. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Word Count:** This is an ongoing story, and I've not finished writing it as yet, so there will be no story specific word count. I might post a word count for each individual chapter, when they're posted, but that all depends on popular (or not) opinion.

**Author's Notes:** Since the sixth book has not yet been published, this story can't technically be classified as Alternate Universe, though I'd surely like to, as that would mean I could claim all characters are acting within their normal personalities – who's to say they aren't in this universe? Hmm… I know what I'll do – I'll alter some past event from canon so that the story automatically becomes AU. ^_^

Please don't worry about the time between my uploading of chapters – I have a busy life, and this story is also a work-in-progress, meaning I'm still writing.

Before I begin uploading this here, I'd like to give a huge thank-you to all those who had replied on the old thread – it means a lot for me to have such loyal friends and readers. A special thank-you goes to my Beloved Muse for helping me through countless writing blocks, and generally, each day – she not only helps me with my writing, but also with my sanity (or the lack thereof, depending upon how well you know me, and how well you think you know me).

Also, I'd like to give a huge thanks to Terry Pratchett for writing the **Discworld** © novels, for he's given me oodles of Inspiration (which has worked well with my Muse and I) and generally been a source of constant humour – not that I'm without those two, myself, but sometimes the fountain of sarcasmic wit runs a little dry.

_

* * *

_

_And never since the **Founders Four**_

_Were whittled down to **three**_

_Have the houses been **united**_

_As they once were **mean****t** to be_

**Chapter One – Privet Drive******

Harry sat fuming in his lonesome bedroom, the heavy rain patterning the glass into a myriad of splattering puddles. The rivulets of burning saline crept bit by bit downwards towards his parched lips, the salty flavour doing nothing to improve his infuriated disposition.

The boy-who-lived had long since grown out of that title, and into the mantle of the one who must fulfil the prophecy. He despised Sybill Trelawny now more so than the vile woman who had taken his godfather away from him. Sirius. What had happened to him? Harry knew he wasn't dead; Sirius Black could not be dead. He was just trapped, somewhere beyond that veil of whispering voices.

Professor Lu…Lupin had only said that he'd gone… that at the time there was nothing he could do… but Harry knew deep within his young heart that he would rescue Sirius; that Sirius was unrecoverable was something that hadn't deigned to be known to Harry. The rift between the world beyond the veil and the living was unimaginably immense.

The world was a harsh and oftentimes unforgiving place. It didn't help Harry in the slightest that it seemed like the world held a particularly hefty grudge against him. Fate was a cruel and fickle friend, and She smiled upon Harry – it was a malevolent facsimile of a grin. The storm blew itself out in due course, allowing a brief burst of shimmering prismatic effects, more commonly known as a rainbow, through the thin glass of the bedroom window. Light entered through the window and split into seven, each part going its separate way, all trying to beat back the dull greyness that had insinuated itself into every nook and cranny.

Begrudgingly the emotionally spent teenager attempted to pull himself upright, and succeeded in flopping over the side of his school trunk, which had parked itself beside the desk-side chair. Beneath the floorboards, the low growling sound could be heard of his Uncle Vernon ranting and raving about how Harry should have been out on the streets, fending for himself, rather than living under the same roof as respectable people such as Vernon Dursley.

Showing no respect for matters of temporal continuity whatsoever, the door creaked ominously open. A silhouette against the faint spark of the landing light, Vernon Dursley stood in the doorway, one hand on whale-sized hip, the other pointing maliciously in the general direction of the sprawled mass that just might have been his nephew,

"What is the meaning of this, boy?"

Vernon's expression had pre-emptively formed a mottled hue of plum in hope of a tirade against Harry.

Feeling at long last battered through the resistant stockade that had forced all emotion from Harry. The alacrity and ferociousness were akin to the walls of a weir instantaneously vanishing, allowing a bloated reservoir to force its vastness down a narrow gorge. Resentment reared its mildly displeasing head (as opposed to the ugly visage of Jealousy) and promptly became the dominant emotion, fuelling Harry's aching muscles into erratic movement.

When first Harry had disembarked the scarlet steam engine that had delivered he and many others to Hogwarts, he'd looked as if he knew nothing at all but pain and misery; now he looked as if he knew too much. Something about his eyes suggested he'd seen things that ordinary people – even ordinary wizards (if there were such things) – never see, or at least never see more than once. Something about all the rest of him suggested to Vernon that causing an inconvenience for the boy now might just be as wise as thrusting a jam-covered finger in a wasps nest. In short, Harry no longer looked like something one of Mrs. Figg's cats brought in and then brought up.

As his movements brought him chin to nose with his Uncle, Harry's eyes glowed like crucibles, his expression a furnace overstuffed with coal, his voice held enough residual heat to melt tungsten,

"What did you call me?" Harry hissed.

Vernon's voice caught in his throat the way fish swim through tar. The words he'd spent a dozen years or more patiently gathering, storing and growing into a masterful display of invectives and commands simply faded away. Vernon looked down at his nephew's knuckles. They were white, the bone pressing through the flesh as though in a rage to escape. His gaze slid up the grey-clad arm to Harry's face. Then his eyes met those of emerald, more or less with a clang.

Vernon felt as though his flesh was being very slowly blown from his bones. He felt no more significant than a mayfly; a necessary mayfly, certainly, a mayfly that would be accorded all due respect, but still an insect with all the rights thereof. And as much free will, in the blind fury of that gaze, as a scrap of paper in a hurricane.

"Leave me alone," said Harry, in the tone of voice the Universe had used to create the moon and stars.

"Er," said Vernon.

"Now," said Harry.

Vernon gave up.

"Oh," he said. "Good. Fine. Yes. The best thing, really."

And that was the end of it, really. Vernon had disappeared down the creaky staircase, leaving Harry in relative peace*.

*Lit: _a form of peace where no relatives are nearby._

The room, once filled with a smothering grey then briefly enchanted by a flood of vibrant colours, steadily grew dim and silent. Outside, beyond Harry's limited field of vision, the street lamps of Little Whinging began to flicker on in a vast swathe, as if a storm of fireflies had suddenly decided to light matches on their rear ends. It wasn't as ghastly as it sounds, for soon the night sky held an orange glow, and the clouds seemed so much closer and more comforting than they had before, as if you could reach out, grab a handful, and wrap yourself in them like a quilt.

Harry sat for what seemed like hours, anger rising and falling within him like some crazed tidal wave – never quite breaking over. How _dare_ his uncle come into _his_ room and demand to know what had happened; how _dare_ his uncle come into _his_ room as if _he_ owned it, as if _he_ owned Harry.

Emotion often clouded judgements, but Harry's mind was as crystal clear as a biting gale. Thoughts sped around as if caught in a high wind, tumbling this way and that, never sticking to one spot for more than an instant. As soon as one image entered his mind it had gone, swept off into the dark recesses of his memories. One thing, though, never budged, despite Harry's best attempts to squash it, crush it, stow it away.  Vernon had backed down. Never mind that he'd done so quickly, without his usual bluster – Vernon Dursley. Had. Backed. Down. What was going on? Vernon would sooner wrestle a shark without the use of his arms than lose an argument, especially one with Harry.

He let loose a ragged, deeply frustrated sigh, and one clenched fist struck out, hitting the desk with such force his glasses slid rapidly towards the end of his nose, his teeth jarred and the awkward sound of a wooden desk being struck by flesh, resounding through the floorboards, whipped its way throughout the small bedroom. Once more Vernon's ranting could be heard, though Harry had learnt the art of selective hearing, and at that moment had chosen to completely filter out the ever-so-slightly annoying noise.

Eventually, after finally conceding defeat to the twin weights attached to his eyelids, Harry removed his glasses and absent-mindedly pinch-rubbed the bridge of his nose, where two purplish indentations from the 'nose-pads' of his spectacles had dug in. Quietly, and stealthily, Harry crept across the upstairs landing and slithered noiselessly down the worn, carpeted steps. He was extra-careful to avoid the creaking-step near the bottom, for if Vernon or Petunia had heard it in their sleep, Harry would be a goner. Gingerly, he tiptoed silently towards the cupboard beneath the stairs – his first real 'room' that he could remember. Using the multi-talented penknife Sirius had once given him – the blade, though it had been melted, or magicked away once, was somehow back in perfect condition – Harry was able to pick the lock and retrieve his wand. Quickly, Harry managed to shut the door once more, and waited patiently for the 'click' that would indicate the lock closing properly.

Within five minutes, Harry was back in his bedroom, one of his arms half under the floorboards beneath his bed; he'd stowed the wand in the space closest to the opening, just in case he needed it. Now, he was sitting beneath the cover of his quilt, a small torch illuminating the parchment not two inches from his short nose. These had been letters from his two best friends in all of Hogwarts; Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had written to Harry half-a-dozen or so times, each, since the beginning of the summer holidays, explaining little of the events around them, but sneaking in every so often a particularly tasty morsel one or either of the twins had picked up. It was good to have Fred and George Weasley as official members of the Order, now that they'd left school. Their extendable-ears were no longer needed, and thus Ron, Hermione and Ginny had been in far less trouble with Mrs. Weasley than the previous year.

Harry was still morose and downhearted, however, no matter the content of those letters, or the hidden message of support and love they held. Sirius had left a huge hole in his heart, and it pained him, so deeply, he often found himself gazing at his chest in shocked wonder at the non-existent wound he felt should be there. Fighting back the burning in his eyes once more, he carefully slid the pieces of parchment back into their hiding place, returned the floorboard into its usual place, moved a small pile of socks to cover it and resumed his position beneath the covers on his bed. It took him hours before he finally walked among the Land of Nod once more. The last image, before going through Customs, was of a huge shadow against the bedroom door, in the shape of a large – and black – dog.

**Chapter Word Count:** 1701


	2. Grimmauld Place II

**Author's Note:** I'd like to apologise for the length of time between the first chapter and now. First of all, many things these past three or four months have conspired to distract me from writing. Furthermore, multiple and complicated problems with my home computer (and limited access to computers elsewhere) meant I couldn't access anything, let alone my stories or the Internet. 

Thank you one and all for being so patient with me and my quirky computer. I'll respond to reviews at the end of this snippet from Chapter Two.

To explain something, though: - this chapter is far from finished, but I believe I've managed to write just enough to keep you interested in this. I promise you all, I have not abandoned this story, and nor do I intend to. Expect more of this chapter when number three is uploaded in the (hopefully) next few months.

Oh, and one more thing. The latin phrase used at the end _will_ be explained in good time... or you can work it out for yourselves. It's your choice, but I ask you not to give anything away before I do _.:: **;)** ::._

Now, are you all sitting comfortably? Then I'll continue…

* * *

**Chapter Two – Grimmauld Place**

About the time that Harry had been reading the letters from Ron and Hermione, a group of twelve, shadowy figures had detached themselves from the inky blackness of a sheltered wall, and were now gliding silently towards the space between two rather unremarkable buildings. Before leaving the safety of the darkness, one had raised a long arm, beholding a strange, silvery object with tiny, intricate patterns engraved in the casing. The cap flipped open by a deft movement of a thumb revealed a dial of some sort. Carefully aiming the Put-Outer in turn to each of the grimy street lamps that offered up a petty mimicry of the silver slip of moonbeams, the be-cloaked individual clicked twelve times and waited patiently for the dozen light-spheres to fly their way to him.

Masked now not only by their cloaks but by the darkness of night itself, the twelve crept swiftly onwards until they faced the join between numbers eleven and thirteen. Recognising their presence and wanting to greet them, with sudden aplomb, the join seemed to widen, as if the space between was expanding and forcing the two houses apart. Within mere moments an ornate, yet clearly aged door 'popped' into place and finally blackened windows, crumbling brickwork appeared; number twelve was now visible.

The same figure that had utilised the Put-Outer strode serenely up the short steps and placed a rusting key into the lock. As the door swung open, he reached out a hand and caught the edge to prevent it from colliding with the wall – it would not do to alert the occupant of the house of their arrival.

Beckoning for the others to join him, he took tentative footsteps across the fraying carpet and rapidly moved into the kitchen, securing the doorways along the corridor that was the dark and dingy hallway, and curtains that covered hidden portraits and the mounted heads of long dead House-elves. He stood at the head of a long, clearly old, wooden table, which could quite easily accommodate at least a dozen, and waited patiently for the others to file into the room.

With a muted click of the door, the final figure stood opposite the first, facing each other across the broad length of the table. The darkness was replete with an almost-quietness – the rustlings of cloaks and the high-pitched squeak of the occasional boot over the smooth stone flooring.

With eerie precision, each of the gathered brought out a foot-long candle from the folds of their robes, setting them on the table. The candles filled the spaces between the twelve, and soon each was lit sequentially, beginning and ending with the first to enter the room, which only now removed the hood of his cloak, revealing half-moon spectacles and a grimly determined glint in his eyes.

In a tone steeped in antiquity, Albus Dumbledore whispered slowly, softly and precisely. Words not uttered for score and four years wound their way through the musty air of the kitchen, weaving through the whispery tendrils of pale smoke that trailed upwards from the flickering candle flames. As one, the gathered began to chant in hushed voices.

To a muggle looking in on this, the gathering would seem to be as if a group of people had begun some sort of séance. To anyone with even a hint of magic running through their veins, they would soon realise the mystical and powerful nature of this meeting of souls.

As the almost-coven abruptly ceased their chant, with alarming suddenness, nothing happened. The room grew steadily more hushed, and all held their breaths, waiting, anticipating the beginnings of the ancient spell to occur. Only two of the twelve – the first and last to enter the kitchen – had ever experienced a similar event.

If asked, sometime afterward, none would be able to tell just when the candle flames had turned from warm, wavering yellows to a kind of blue that was somewhere between actinic and those produced by the infamous Goblet of Fire.

"Now," said the eldritch wizard, "you all remember what next must be done." It was more of a vocalised destiny than a statement or question.

"Albus, are you _quite_ certain we need to say… that part…?"

This enquiry came in a Scottish burr much stronger in the closed room than at any other time it had been heard.

"Completely certain, Minerva, in that if it is not spoken I am afraid the thin fabric separating the worlds will tear at the seams. 'All Hell breaking loose' is not simply a figure of speech. We wish to pierce the veil, not rip it to shreds."

He raised a hand to quell the response. "Time is of the essence, Minerva, now more than ever. We must begin...

_Postatem obscuri lateris nescitus......  
_

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Responses**

**Tessa ****–** Thank you for Undivided's first review! I'm sorry that I haven't updated as soon as perhaps you'd have liked, but I think I explained why. It's a wonderful feeling to check my Log-In and find people have added me to their list of Favourite Authors, or Favourite Stories, and I thank you for being one of those inspiring people.

**Shattered Desire ****–** I hope you were able to wait _.:: **:D** ::._ Thank you for the praise, and I hope that you achieve the kind of talent that you aspire to. I'm sure you're much better than you think; everyone, after all, is their own worst critic. _{This is because we usually overlook our own mistakes, not because we think everything we do is of poor quality}_

**Mad Eyes ****–** It's a shame the thread with your review of my writing skills/style is no longer accessible – I could have used your quotes for advertising! _.:: **:D** ::._ Thank you for the review and for liking my story. I must admit, I did try to read yours (_Unforeseen_ – more people should read it, you know) however, as noted in my above A/N, many things meant I have been unable to access the Internet. I look forward to continuing with your story as soon as possible.

**Leslie ****–** Your uplifting remarks, both here, Fiction Press, on the HPDC and everywhere else bring a smile to my eyes and my soul. Thank you for being my inspiration, my muse, my co-author and my Angel. You and Solaris seem to be the only two people who pick up on every clue and nuance I write… it's surprising sometimes how much thought I put into writing these stories. It's the major reason (apart from the computer _.::** ;) **::._) why it takes so long between chapters / new stories being uploaded. Love, -me. 3

**Japonica ****–** Trust me, much, much more of this story has been planned than I've even had a chance to write.

**Siren ****–** _.::_ **:D**_::._ Thank you for saying that! This is my first real attempt at angst-writing and it's nice to have people saying I'm on the right track. What happens next, though, may not always be what you expect… _.::ominous thunder rolls can be heard::._

**Kassieee** **–** (_or however you spell your name_ .:: **:P **::.) ****Lovely to know that people who don't review like this too .:: **;) **::. I'll get around to finishing this story just as soon as I finish it, of that you can be assured. And, if you're my conscience, I dread to think what weird and wonderful things I'll be able to do now all my morals have been twisted .:: _evil laugh/cough/splutter ::._

**Paradox **"_Please continue this._"**–** don't worry, I intend to. Ooh, you used one of the P-words! Thank you _.:: **:D** ::._ As for Vernon's reaction… I'm quite proud of that part, actually… only a few people have seemed to grasp the right 'image' of it, though… I hope you managed to see it.


End file.
